


Deadly

by angeleledhwen (kallistei), eledhwen (kallistei)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-06-30
Updated: 2003-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-04 16:08:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1785178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kallistei/pseuds/angeleledhwen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/kallistei/pseuds/eledhwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes sin is worth the risks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pride

**Author's Note:**

> Written for longsunday, pre canonical establishment of anything about Blaise apart from the name.

Harry Potter's mouth tastes like chocolate and cherries. It is soft and hot and wet and infinitely sinful. One taste could not possibly be enough to last a lifetime. But Harry Potter likes girls, and Harry Potter has a girlfriend, and one kiss isn't going to change that. Not even if that same kiss has changed Blaise Zabini beyond recognition.

Harry Potter's skin is tanned, and lightly haired, a feast for the eyes and the skin, and his sweat tastes salty-tangy when Blaise swipes his tongue along his collarbone. Once could never be enough to see all that bronzed expanse in its pure nakedness. But Harry Potter rises from the floor leaving Blaise tangled in his hurriedly cast-off robes, and tells him it was merely a momentary aberration, before he walks out of the door without a second glance.

Harry Potter is beautiful, and it is clear that he knows it now, knows it with every fibre of his being.

He is not the only one who knows things. When, months later, Harry finds Blaise in an otherwise deserted section of the library and moves towards him with his intent shining clear in his eyes, Blaise moves back, and back, until Harry stops.

"What is wrong with you?" Harry asks, confusion plain.

"With me? Nothing. I might ask the same question of you. But I won't. I'll just tell you I want no part of this." He sees the spark in Harry's eyes, and knows he has won, if he can get the rest out before Harry speaks. "You can't have her, and me on the side. No way. But you can have me, and her for a friend. And you know I'm the best you'll ever have."

Harry opens his mouth, and closes it again. "You can't... that's not fair!"

"Not fair, Potter? Not fair is leaving me on the fucking _floor_ , sticky and sore, and saying 'This will never happen again'. Not fair is looking at me like I'm dirt every time I come near you and her by accident, and then cornering me in the stacks with immoral intent. _That's_ not bloody fair. This? This is negotiation. This is making sure _you_ play 'fair'." Too much anger in that, he clamps it down firmly, and gives Harry a carefully-calculated smirk. He _wants_ Harry, but it is going to be on his terms. He knows _exactly_ what he is worth.

"I... I can't..." All Harry's forward momentum is gone now, and he hovers indecisively.

"I guess that's your decision, then. We will never speak of this again, or I will let Snape - and the Daily Prophet - know you've been sexually harassing me." Blaise turns to the shelf behind him, examining the books with unseeing eyes.

Harry blinked. "No! Wait!"

He doesn't turn around again. "What?"

"I… I want you."

"A good choice, if I may say so myself." And then he turns around, and Harry is _just there_ , and he clamps his mouth to Harry's and kisses him as if he can get all the oxygen he will ever need straight from Harry's lungs.  



	2. Wrath

All he’d wanted was a quick fuck. Or rather, he’d wanted to _be_ fucked. The only person he’d been able to think of that would give him what he wanted without questions or complications had been Blaise. And then Blaise had turned around and given him a choice, and he’d made the only one he could. And all of a sudden he was less one girlfriend, and up one… something else entirely. All in all, he wasn’t terribly pleased with this latest development.

He tugs himself away from the temptation of Blaise’s mouth and ignores the need burning through his body. It was that treacherous need that had brought him to this unexpected situation in the first place. “Fine,” he says. “I agreed to what you wanted. I’d better get something out of this too.”

“Oh, my dear innocent Harry, you will. I guarantee it,” Blaise practically purrs, and Harry ruthlessly suppresses the shiver that crawls up his spine. ‘Innocent’? Blaise has had proof that he’s no innocent. Perhaps, though, he will need to prove it again.

He takes Blaise’s face between his hands none too gently, and claims his mouth. The kiss, fuelled by his jumbled emotions – what on _earth_ is he going to tell Hannah? – is even more consuming than the last. Dimly, he thinks that he’d never before realised how alike anger and lust really are, and just how well they feed off each other. Blaise has got what he wants, oh yes, but it might be slightly more than he expected. He wants to rip Blaise’s trousers off right there and take him against that oh-so-convenient bookshelf.

So much for getting fucked.

It’s probably not too sensible an idea, though there is precious little of his brain that remains in the slightest interested by ‘sensible’. Madam Pince would be horribly shocked to find them _in flagrante delicto_ in her stacks. He forces himself to move away from Blaise. “Come,” he says.

“Gladly.” Blaise meekly follows him to a classroom he knows will be deserted, but every time Harry looks back, the expression on Blaise’s face is anything but meek. Unexpected as it is, this might be just what he needs.

He charms the door locked. “I want you naked and on all fours. Now.”

“Do it yourself,” says Blaise. When Harry charms them both naked, a raised eyebrow is all the reaction he gets. It stokes his anger even higher. He practically launches himself at Blaise, pulling him into a kiss and pinning his hands behind his back. The hint of resistance makes it feel a thousand times better. This time when Harry lets go, Blaise falls gracefully to his hands and knees, and gives Harry a ‘What are you waiting for?’ look over his shoulder. Seizing up his wand, Harry mutters a quick lubrication spell.

Then he pushes into Blaise and it’s hard and fast and angry, and just exactly what he’s been craving for not just days, but _months_ , and he’s thinking about nothing but his own pleasure, but from the sounds Blaise is making under him he likes it just as much as Harry does. And when the significance of the words Blaise is spilling so generously finally filters through the red desire-rage-possession pounding in his ears, and feels the shaking of the body under his and realises its meaning, he can’t help but give a cry of his own and he comes like he’s dying inside.


	3. Lust

Harry has been watching Blaise across two tables – and around all the intervening people - all the way through dinner. Blaise had caught his gaze a few minutes into the meal, and since then he’s been eating every mouthful with sensuous abandon. The spectacle is perilously close to driving Harry to the brink of madness. It’s been six months, since that day in the library. Six months of not missing girls nearly as much as he’d thought he would. Six months of delirious sex almost whenever the hell he feels like it, and he still can’t sit through a meal without practically dribbling over Blaise. He should know better than to sit within sight of him by now.

After all, he is seventeen, and continually primed for sex even without Blaise sitting there and tormenting him like that. He does his best to glare around Neville, who is sitting opposite him. Neville looks puzzled, and faintly worried, by which Harry judges that his glare isn’t overly spoilt by the wave of sheer lust threatening to take him over. But Blaise just smirks back in response, and sucks lasciviously at the spoon holding the last morsel of his dessert until Harry is just about ready to boil over. Harry reminds himself that it would be a really bad idea to walk over to the Slytherin table and do… well, anything, but especially what he wants to do.

When everybody gets up, he delays just enough that almost everyone else has left, and he and Blaise can walk out through the door together seemingly by accident. Just as he’s about to say something, Blaise leans over slightly and whispers, “I have to have you. Now.” Harry’s eyes widen in yet more arousal and surprise and a touch of worry, and he looks around to see if anyone might have overheard. Malfoy is a few steps behind, but he looks absorbed in his own thoughts. They’re unlikely to find a better opportunity if they were to wait a year, and he has absolutely no intention of doing that.

“Where?” Harry whispers back. They climb the main stairs together, and turn in the direction of the library.

“This way.” Blaise makes his own quick survey of the area, and ducks into a corridor Harry’s never noticed before. There’s a little alcove next to a suit of armour, just big enough to conceal two. “Here,” Blaise says.

“Here?”

“Scared, Potter?”

Harry decides actions speak better than words. Ignoring – for the moment – his own, rather pressing, needs, he kneels in front of Blaise, who spreads his legs slightly and leans against the wall. Soon one of Blaise’s hands is tangled in Harry’s hair, the other rather viciously bitten into to control his little pleasured, delicious cries. Harry can feel himself get even harder at the feeling of such utter control. It takes bare minutes before Blaise’s hips are moving restlessly under his hands, and Harry’s mouth is flooded in come. He sits back on his heels, and grins up at Blaise, licking his lips.

“I changed my mind. This is the perfect place.”

“Harry,” Blaise murmurs, and pulls him into a kiss nearly as consuming as their first, reaching for Harry’s zip.


	4. Envy

It’s supposed to be this big secret. Because no one is supposed to know that a Slytherin and a Gryffindor are off fucking like bunnies every time they can sneak a moment and a dark corner. That would make all sorts of trouble, if that little titbit came out.

And, sure as hell, Draco Malfoy isn’t supposed to know that when Harry Potter falls to his knees, unzips Blaise Zabini’s trousers and swallows him whole, Blaise makes the most delicious – addictive, even - little whine Draco has ever heard. But he does know. He knows everything. He knows more than he thinks he has ever wanted to know.

Above all, he knows that he wants to hear that noise again and again, and he doesn’t want it to be Harry-fucking-Potter who causes it. He doesn’t want it to be Harry Potter’s mouth leaving those bruises on Blaise’s skin, bruises that he sees Blaise rubbing salve into in front of the mirror in their dormitory. And when he asks Blaise about them, he doesn’t want him to answer ‘It’s nothing, a little, er, accident’, with that utterly satisfied smile on his face. He doesn’t want to see that hint of regret in Blaise’s eyes as the last reddish mark fades away, and know just why he regrets.

He wants to feel that mouth wrapped around him, and he doesn’t want it to be Harry Potter’s name that Blaise whimpers when he comes.

He wants a lot, and he doesn’t want more, and it all comes down to one thing in the end.

Because Draco has wanted Blaise, in a sort of abstract way, ever since he saw that distant untouchable light in his eyes that very first day, at the Sorting Feast. He hadn’t quite been able to put a name to his want, at the time, but it has burned in his veins every time he walks into a room and sees Blaise, looking three hundred miles away and more real than anything else. Every time he sees Blaise, with that metre-square of space that no one dares to invade, because Blaise’s personality fills more space than his body, and every inch of it says ‘Touch me at your peril’.

And he has wanted Blaise, in a very specific sort of way, ever since he saw his eyes flicker shut in pure unadulterated ecstasy as Harry Potter – Harry Potter! – swallowed everything he had to give. Now he knows just what name to give to his want, and it burns in his veins as if it will consume him. He has seen that space invaded, with and without invitation, and Blaise has taken it and begged for more – yes, he’s seen that too, and that nearly made him come on the spot, discretion be damned.

Blaise the untouchable is demonstrably untouchable no more, but the wrong person is doing the touching.

Draco knows all this, but he won’t tell anyone. Because he could make Blaise come to him, but that space would still surround him. And he could drive them apart, but he couldn’t make Blaise his. He cannot win, but there is still something for him to lose.

The green-eyed monster, hah!


	5. Gluttony

Draco has discovered that it’s not just the sounds that Blaise makes that are addictive. The whole package, he has come to realise, is just as dangerous. More so, even. Rather to his shock, Potter seems to have become an essential part of the package, almost as dangerous as Blaise himself. He follows them into their dark corners and secret places now with specific intent rather than from momentary curiosity. He knows exactly what he will see, now, and he craves it as deeply as an addict longs for his next fix, and like one plots ways to obtain his desire.

He is an addict. He is hopelessly addicted to the sight of Blaise’s long, competent hands tangled in Potter’s hair as they kiss, nails half-obscured by inky strands. They kiss like they are going to devour each other right in front of his greedy eyes. Those hands grab his attention at odd times. They have square nails, bitten nearly to the quick, and he who has been watching Blaise for years has not noticed before now that Blaise bites his nails when he’s concentrating on something. A glimpse of them across the table at meals, or holding his wand in class, or chopping Potions ingredients, hardly ever fails to spark a flame of desire in the pit of Draco’s stomach, now, and renders him incapable of movement for a second or two. He has lost more points for Slytherin in the last two months than he cares to think about.

He’s addicted to the flicker of Potter’s tongue as he bends Blaise over a desk in a deserted classroom and brings his mouth to the promising, shadowed cleft of Blaise’s arse, as Blaise whimpers and moans and begs, begs, begs. A pink flicker against white skin, one of the few acts in their astonishing repertoire that he’s never quite managed to get a good view of, though he knows exactly what Potter’s doing down there. The mere thought is almost more arousing than he can bear, particularly as he has no outlet but his own right hand, and it is horribly unsatisfying after watching them. When Potter speaks, now, and Draco catches a flicker of pink tongue against white teeth, he can hardly manage to summon up an appropriate insult, too distracted by the throbbing hardness in his pants and the wrench of desire in his guts. He’s lost more arguments to Potter in the last two months than he cares to remember.

He knows it is a dangerous sin, this one, this most tempting of his sins. He doesn’t realise just how dangerous until the day Blaise looks straight at him across the table at dinner, an utterly delicious expression of mild bewilderment on his face, and asks “We’ve been waiting weeks for you, Draco.” Draco blinks at him, is about to ask what on earth he is talking about, when Blaise takes a spoonful of ice-cream and proceeds to almost fellate it. No almost about it, in fact. Draco is positive that the last time he saw that much wonderful lip and tongue work – utterly wasted on that unfeeling spoon! - Blaise was on his knees in front of Potter. The sight drives every semblance of thought straight out of Draco’s head and all he can do is stare.

When Blaise finally removes the spoon from his mouth, it takes Draco a moment to realise what’s happened, and it takes a moment longer to register that Blaise has spoken again. And when he realises just what Blaise has said, his mind shuts down and he stares all over again.

“Aren’t you ready to join us yet?”


	6. Avarice

There had only ever been one possible response Draco could give to Blaise’s – and by extension, Harry’s – invitation. Blaise knew it, and knew that he would finally possess both of them, and the thought sent a frisson of delight through him that no sex could hope to match. Harry knew it, and while the thought of Draco joining them would never have crossed his mind in the ordinary way of things, he has had a few weeks to get used to the idea, and the thought of possessing Draco has an excitement utterly unlike the reality of possessing Blaise. And Draco knew it, the moment the question was asked, as the thought of possessing Blaise, of having him come willingly into his hands, flashed across his brain and short-circuited everything he’d ever known.

“Yes,” Draco says, and wonders how he can make that one word say everything he wants it to mean. Like _Mine_ , and _Finally_ , and _Why did it take you so long to ask_ , and _I think I’ll die if I don’t touch you now_ , and I don’t think I can believe it, and cutting through all that haze, _Mine, mine and mine_.

Blaise smiles at Draco, a smile that slices through all the rules fencing them in, all the things saying they cannot touch each other across the table, because they are both males, and it is not done. The smile is like the caress of steel on skin, and Draco thinks it says _Yours_ , and Harry thinks it says _Ours_ , and Blaise knows it says _Mine, mine and mine_ , and he turns the smile equally on Harry.

Harry forgets himself, and where they are, and smiles back at Blaise, because that smile is one he has never seen before and it is glorious beyond everything else he knows. Their eyes catch, and hold, and the look ignites all sorts of fires in his mind that can only be put out with one liquid. Draco half-turns in his seat, caught between their gazes. His profile is aristocrat-perfect, like the king’s head on a coin, silhouetted by the blinding contentment of Blaise’s smile, and something new lurches to life in Harry’s guts. Almost, he reaches one hand out, to touch, to claim, to mark on both those skins, Malfoy-pale and Zabini-golden, _Mine, mine and mine_.

Draco and Harry thank all the gods they know that Blaise sprang his little trap well into dessert as they sit, and fidget, and wait for the meal to be over. Blaise sits, and smiles, and congratulates himself, and occasionally, oh so innocently, nudges Draco’s foot with his own, to see him start, and then smile. And when they are the only people left in the Hall, he opens up his trap and extracts his twin captives, and leads them where he will.

Much, much later, the school lies dark and still and silent, and nothing moves, not even the portraits, not even the stairs. But in the classroom where eight months ago Harry claimed Blaise’s body, and Blaise claimed everything Harry was, Blaise’s eyes flicker open when he is finally sure that the other two are asleep. Harry snores slightly on his left, one arm flung over Blaise’s body, his head on Blaise’s shoulder. Draco lies face-down on his right, face turned away, but one of his arms, too, lies across Blaise’s chest, claiming his own share. Blaise’s eyes fall shut again, allowing himself a few more hours of rest in this warm, comfortable tangle of bodies. He will wake them when he leaves, remind them that they must be in their dormitories before Filch checks this classroom near dawn. As he slips into sleep, his last thought is _Mine, mine and mine_.


	7. Sloth

Blaise never wants to have to move. It is a most uncharacteristic feeling for him, who has behind his carefully nurtured posture of ease always been pushing himself, pushing others. But lying here, with Harry and Draco wrapped around him, luxuriating in their warmth and his possession, it is shockingly easy to slip into true indolence. His mind drifts. Instead of continually planning ahead, thinking of ways to deal with any contingency as usual, the wheels of his brain are slowing, slotting themselves only into the steady pace of the present, and the contentment that permeates it.  
  
In the last three months, this room has become theirs. He knows that often it is all Harry and Draco can think of for hours at a time. They have whispered it to him as if confessing a great secret, as if afraid he will hold it against them, as they tell him they cannot wait and detour him into a corner, or a room, where inevitably the other one is waiting, and he pretends that he hasn’t known exactly what they have been planning.   
  
He can read them, can see that intent in their eyes. He watches the pressure building day by day and calculates it to the least increment, and knows just when to make his offer so that it will lead to just this place, with them and him, and this delicious languor. Make no mistake, it is always his to offer, even when they order him here.  
  
When Harry pushes him to the cold, hard floor, and fucks him, and then makes him beg, it is Harry’s voice that cracks and falters. When Draco lays him on the floor and worships him with hands and mouth, it is not the touch that makes him come helplessly, but the look of faint surprise on Draco’s face. And when they touch each other – in response to a suggestion of his, of course – the disbelief on both faces is quite possibly the most glorious thing he has ever seen.  
  
Sleep is still, as it has always been to him, a waste of time. He has better things to do than to sleep, but for the moment, the ‘better’ is simply to lie here. To feel Draco’s breath ruffling his hair, and to run his hand along the smooth muscle of Harry’s thigh, and know they belong to him.  
  
Harry murmurs in his sleep, and settles a little closer. His lips brush Blaise’s shoulder, and Blaise can feel a hopeful flash of desire spring up in him. He could wake them now, and they would have no objections at all. There is still enough time for a good, if slightly hurried, session before they have to go back to their dormitories. But in truth he would rather stay just as he is, feeling that faint tension now underlying his satisfied lethargy, and know simply that he could wake them, if he wanted to, and it would be all that they, too, wanted.   
  
This thing that he has made is deliciously, perfectly sinful, and there is so much of it that it could well last a lifetime. He can taste the promise, and it is as sweet as the sin itself.


End file.
